


The Brightener

by OrchidScript



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Homelessness, M/M, Ned Tuttle is a podcaster, New England, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rust Belt AU, Tags Are Hard, West Virginia, off screen parent and sibling death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: Holland cleared his throat and leaned in close to the microphone set up on his own kitchen table. “Just so you know, I’m doing this for no one other than her. Just her. You got that, Tuttle?”“I, um, I got that, Holland,” Ned swallowed hard, clearly uneasy.The podcaster should be uneasy, Holland thought, after all the lies he had furthered. Accidentally, perhaps, but after that night in the bar, Ned Tuttle had every right to be nervous around him, which Holland found himself preferring. He should be nervous.And grateful.A modern "Rust Belt" AU featuring Holland, Talya, and the Vosijk family.
Relationships: Holland Vosijk & Talya, Talya/Holland Vosijk, they're friends with benefits guys just handle it
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. The Enthusiast

**Author's Note:**

> As all good stories (and AUs), this one started with a good long chat session. Going back and forth for two days, riffing and building on ideas, adding and taking away, revising and more. The idea of a modern, US-based interpretation of the Londons came directly from pinkcupboardwitch -- here West Virginia fills in for Makt, New England for Arnes, and London is just London. Special thanks to Pink for letting me run with this -- it's been really fun to work on and a fabulous excuse to lurk through some family history while I'm at it. I hope you like it, friend :)
> 
> This work will function as a series of inter-connected oneshots, each building on the other to form something like a narrative arc. I wanted to experiment with different styles of storytelling too, so you're going to see a podcast transcript, newspaper article, and maybe a dream or two. So don't be surprised if it changes from one chapter to the next. There's no way I can hit every point of this AU that Pink and I have been building, so I'll be throwing in a big long list of all the key points at the very end, so you all can see what our brains formulated.
> 
> Thank you all and enjoy!

Holland cleared his throat and leaned in close to the microphone set up on his own kitchen table. “Just so you know, I’m doing this for no one other than her. _Just_ her. You got that, Tuttle?”

“I, um, I got that, Holland,” Ned swallowed hard, clearly uneasy.

The podcaster should be uneasy, Holland thought, after all the lies he had furthered. Accidentally, perhaps, but after that night in the bar, Ned Tuttle had every right to be nervous around him, which Holland found himself preferring. He should be nervous.

And grateful. 

Grateful that Holland had agreed to be on his small-time faux radio show at all. 

Kell Maresh had broached the topic during one of their tutoring sessions, suggesting that Holland could better control the narrative of his parents if he just talked about it. Holland had not wanted to even entertain the idea, but Kell made him promise he would. Whether in an effort to make up for his friend’s missteps, the awful things his mother had insinuated, or a genuine piece of altruism, Holland wasn’t sure. He had laid the whole thing out to Talya over a drink at their favorite nearby bar. After a few minutes’ consideration, Talya said she thought it wasn’t a completely terrible idea. But she said it in the tone of voice Holland now knew she reserved for things she didn’t remotely like but saw no reason to prevent, a kind of specialized resignation.

The knowledge of his father taking the blame tore at his heart.

The misinformation gnawed at him day and night.

The creased and wrinkled photo folded in his wallet drove him to distraction.

In the end, Holland Vosijk agreed to talk. With conditions, which he wrote out in his practiced, neat print: (1) They would record the session in his apartment. (2) Nothing would be published or publicized without his express approval. (3) Talya would sit with him while he talked. (4) He would be able to talk unimpeded; Holland would let Ned know if or when he could ask questions.

“Good.” Holland sat upright, shoulders squared and hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“Do you have something you, um, that you’re going to read from…” Ned watched him warily over the wire frames of his glasses. “Or…?”

Holland shook his head. “I thought I’d just ramble. Make the editing process absolutely miserable for you.”

“Ha, thanks. Well deserved, I suppose.” Ned clicked a few more laptop keys and messed with a stray audio wire. “That, should, do it. Okay. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Ned smiled, pressed another key, and gestured for Holland to start.

Holland took in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to unload the burden of thirteen long, lonely years. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Transcript** :  _ The Enthusiast _ podcast, ep. 127, “The Brightener”

**Recorded** : January 19, 2017; Cambridge, Mass.

**Subjects** : Holland Vosijk; Edward “Ned” Tuttle; crosstalk Kell Maresh and Talya Verreaux. **Speaker denoted within the transcript by first initial only.

**Holland** : My name is Holland Vosijk. You’ll probably know me better as Ilya Ivanovitch Vosijk, which is a mouthful. My father’s family was Russian, so the naming convention stuck for me and my brother, but my parents always called me Holland. This doesn’t matter, you can cut that out, I just wanted to, to say it… Thirteen years ago my mother, Margaret Ruth Vosijk, left home to run a few errands and never came home. She was going up to the church to drop off some crafts for Sunday school, then the grocery store, then home. It would have taken an hour… *heavy sigh on the recording*

After she died, disappeared, my family fell apart. They’re all gone now. My mother’s body was never found, my father and brother are gone now too. They’re buried in the same grave, their coffins stacked on top of my mother’s place holder box at the bottom. We could only afford one, after all. I’ve… I’ve been on my own since I was eleven and I’ve never talked before, about this, to anyone. I didn’t even know you could Google her, the case, or that anyone knew or cared out, outside of West Virginia -- What, Ned?”

**Ned:** Nothing, nothing, I’m fine, keep… Oh fine. Fine. What do you mean you’ve been on your own?

**H:** I mean I’ve been on my own, what do you think I meant? My mother disappeared right before my eight birthday. My dad died in his sleep two years later, then my brother drove away one morning two years after that. I stayed in our house for a few months, but then the neighbors started getting wise to what was going on and I ran too.

**N** : Where did you go?

**H** : Nowhere. I slept rough for seven years.

**N** : Homeless?

**H** : Homeless. Until college, which I never thought I’d get into. The house is still there, I could have gone back whenever, once things had cooled off but I just… didn’t. I hated being the last one left, so I didn’t. I had already taken everything I could pawn that would get me any cash so… Never mind.

**N:** You said your brother drove off --.

**H** : Alox left when he was 17, took dad’s old Ford pick up and left. It was June and we had gotten up early like we always did. Alox put on the coffee and made breakfast, then went back into the bedroom. He came back with a backpack and a big brown paper bag, poured himself a cup of coffee and walked out. I didn’t realize what, what was going on until the engine turned over… I ran after him, two miles in bare feet, trying to get him to stop but… It doesn’t matter why or what for because he turned up drowned in the Kanawha a few years later. The school principal told me, the only reason he got buried with dad in the first place.

**Kell** : Good  _ god _ , Holl--

**H:** Don’t, Kell. I don’t want your pity or anyone else’s. I’m so sick of pity, of the “sorry for your losses” and whatever the hell else people say when they want to make your hurt about them. It’s over, it’s done, I’ve lived it. That’s it, that’s all… Talya? Tal, are you alright?

**Talya:** Am I alright, Holland?  _ Am I _ alright? Holland you --... you keep talking. I’m just, I don’t know. I don’t have words for it right now.

**H** : If you’re sure, but go take a walk or something if you need to, alright? I won’t keep you if it’s upsetting you.

**T:** If it’s upsetting me… I have no right to be upset, Holl, and I want to be here for you. So, keep talking. You’re doing really really well. 

**H** : Sure, I will… *clears throat* I suppose you were expecting more about my mother and less about the aftermath and sob story.

**N** : Honestly? I abandoned all expectations the moment you agreed to come on the show. I didn’t think you would and, well, it seemed rude to presume any more than I already have, Holland.

**H** : Everyone and their brother has questions, Ned. I saw the damn Reddit thread. I know. So what do you want to know?

**N** : Eh… A lot of things, frankly.

**H** : Like?

**N** : Like your father. What was he like? What did he do? Why did you nearly strangle me for bringing him up?

**H** : *laughter* Alright, first things first -- I didn’t strangle you, I grabbed your shirt front. And second, it wasn’t because you brought him up, it was because you said he killed her. You and half the world do , apparently.

**N:** Holland, I realize now that it -- all of it -- was a mistake. But I couldn’t have possibly known who you were from the name on your credit card. I thought you were a cousin --.

**H** : Why? Does the internet think I’m dead too?

**N** : Well… yes.


	2. Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small scene between Holland and Talya, because they need more air time together.

Holland could hear her. He really could, clear as day even after too many years gone by. Soft but insistent, poking at the back of his brain.

_ Holland... Holland... Wake up, Holland... _

He feels himself waking up, feels himself rousing, and resists. Digs his heels in like a stubborn mule and pushes back. If he wakes up he loses her, again. Loses her voice, the sound, the cadence, the love in it. If he opens his eyes, he loses his mother all over again. As he surfaces from dreams, he throws a hand out and tries to drag her voice up with him. 

_ Wake up, Holland... Time for class, baby... _

A hand slides against his. His heart lurches and his fingers close instantly. It’s solid in his, solid and real.  _ Mama? _

_ Holland... _

“Mama?”

A chorus of giggles, girlish and high, followed by a brusque, “Don’t laugh, you bitches. She died when he was a kid.”

His eyes open and blink up into Talya’s face. His best friend, who had stuck with him since orientation week for some reason. Who let him fall asleep on her bed after he divulged in class earlier that he had pulled an all-nighter, prodding him lightly whenever he would start to nod off in the lecture hall. 

Up all night. Trying in vain to erase the twang in his voice and all that was wrongfully assumed from it. Failing miserably after only a few hours of trying and kicking himself for it. Feeling the guilt work its way up into his chest at the thought of his family, his home, all the people there and how ashamed they would be of him to know he was ashamed, partly, of them. Or, more precisely, that some stranger turning down his offer to go home had started it and he had let it bother him enough to go to all that trouble.

That embarrassment was now overtaken by a new wave, spurned by what he had just said in front of Talya and her two roommates.

He swallowed thickly. “Hey, Tal... What? What time is it?”

Talya ran a light hand through his hair, concern gracing her soft features. “Five forty-five, Holl. You alright? Feeling any better?”

“Fine,” Holland clears his throat, pushing down the accent that gives him away. It comes back with a vengeance in the morning, after a nap, when he’s a few shots deep. He had gotten better at lessening its impact, but he had never hated its sound until last night.

“You don’t  _ look _ fine,” Talya murmurs, her roommates all but forgotten behind her. She takes a step back as Holland sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the dorm bed and dropping off.

“I had a class at five,” is all Holland can manage. He focuses on finding his shoes, pushing his hair back into place, trying to remember where he put his backpack. He had a class at four too, the knowledge that he had skipped two whole lectures -- even accidentally -- gutted him. He had never, ever skipped a class before. Not in high school, not his entire freshman or sophomore year, and he wasn’t about to start now. 

He had standards to uphold, people to make proud.

“Hey, hey, not so fast.” Talya nudged him in the shoulder. 

“What?” He watched her closely, balancing against her desk while tying his shoe on one leg. She was wearing her favorite outfit, the same one she had been wearing when he met her two years earlier, the same she wore once a week until it turned too cold. 

White turtleneck, jean skirt, jean jacket. Big gold earrings, wild brown curls framing her face. The no-nonsense set of her lips and eyes -- hazel, leaning toward golden. The dark freckles that peppered every inch of her skin, cultivated over long summers as a lifeguard for her neighborhood pool.

Talya adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “I’m getting dinner. You’re coming with me.”

“Tal, I can’t, I’ve got to get notes and send --.”

“No one’s checking their email until tomorrow, maybe. Ease up,” Talya said flatly, arching an eyebrow dangerously. The look that told most everyone they were about to cross a line. “Better yet, wait until Monday and apologize in person. But you’re getting dinner with me, no arguments. I know you didn’t eat before running into our ten a.m.” 

He sighed heavily and stared her down.“Talya.”

She didn’t give him an inch. “Holland.”

“I’m not going.”

“I don’t care.”

“I have leftovers, I’ll be fine.”

“That’s nice. You already have lunch tomorrow.” 

In one movement, Talya uncrossed her arms and snatched up his bag, flinging it onto her shoulder with her own and walking back out of the room. She smiled pleasantly at her roommates, ignoring his protests. “Be back for movie night by eight, I promise, but pick one without me okay? C’mon Holland!”

Holland grabbed his crumpled jacket from the floor, rolling his eyes. “I’m coming!”

“You’re stalling! Let’s go!”

The roommates’ giggling followed him as he followed his friend down the hall three steps back. Arms crossed and grumbling all the way down the hall, then the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk. Talya stood, bathed in the setting sunlight of late September golden hour, examining her week-old manicure. When the building’s door slammed behind him, she glanced up and smirked.

“Done dragging our feet or is this-.” She moved her fingers in a circle. “Going to go on all night?”

Holland stuck out a hand. “My bag. Now.”

“Not until we get food.” Talya grinned. She turned on her heel and began to walk up the brick sidewalk, a pleased little skip in her step. “Now, I was thinking Vietnamese because it’s been forever since we went to that place and you need soup or something spicy. Maybe spicy soup, I don’t know. Mom says that something warm cures all ills, so…”

Holland knows she knows that he will follow her eventually, to get back his textbooks and notes if nothing else, but for a moment he stands on the sidewalk. Just stands there with his arms crossed, digging his heels in and gritting his teeth as the wind coming off the river hits him square in the face. He chewed the inside of his cheek and glared at the curb, shaking his head every now and then. He didn’t want to go anywhere, and certainly not out and about for the second night. Sure, he was going to be with Talya but he doesn’t want to talk. She had a sneaky, comforting way of getting under the scabs he kept closely guarded; prodding him into spilling his guts under the notion that he would feel better if he just told her and, if he didn't, there would always be alcohol. 

Most of those things were the facts of his growing up that nearly no one else knew, save a ninth grade teacher and a few ladies from his parents’ church. His mother’s, father’s, then older brother’s deaths. The run-down little house on Charleston’s west side that he missed so much. What it felt like to wake up underneath football bleachers, seeing it had snowed the night before, and smiling at the clean whiteness of it all. 

Talya knew all these things. Knew them all and never laughed, never pitied him. She just listened and asked questions, only comforting when he asked. She was his best friend, the first person he met in the whole of Boston who he actually enjoyed being around, his one true confidant. She cared, took care of him when he insisted he could take care of himself. 

Which is precisely why he could not tell her what happened last night. He didn’t want her to care, he just wanted it to go away. Wanted the horrible, corrosive feeling of rejection, the memory of the pitying laughter, and sound soft judgement to leave him. It was prickly self-preservation at its finest

But she would get it out of him if he went with her. 

She would never know if he just stayed right there.

“Holland?” Talya was back in front of him again, her self-satisfied smirk gone. Instead, she looked worried and held his bag out to him. 

He took it but didn’t move, didn’t talk for fear of how his voice would sound. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. We don’t have to go anywhere, or you don’t. You can go home if you want. I’m just… I’m sorry. I pushed too far.”

“You did.” Holland answers tightly, biting his tongue.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” He can’t say anymore without betraying something, some tidbit of emotion that he wasn’t ready for anyone to dig into. That even he didn’t want to look too closely at.

“Okay. Yeah, okay, I’m sorry,” Talya picks up, voice quiet and small. So very unlike her. “I was just trying to--. No, sorry. That doesn’t matter. You can go home, if you want. I won’t force you into anything.”

Holland nods once. His throat is uncomfortably tight, stopped up by residual anger, sadness, and an annoying sour dash of fear. The need to confide in her was bubbling up and Talya wasn’t even trying. But he just couldn’t force the words out, despite knowing it was wrong to stay silent. It was starting to hurt her feelings, he knew it. She had her arms crossed, her shoulders up, and was shifting between from foot to foot quicker than usual.

“Tal-.”

“Hey, no worries. Just, go home and get done what you need to. We can get coffee tomorrow,” Talya says quickly with a weak smile, taking a step back on the sidewalk. “I’m, I’m sorry, Holl. Don’t worry about it, there’ll be other fridays. I’ll see you later.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She turns and walks back up the sidewalk with distinctly less skip in her step. Holland watched her go, a pit forming in his stomach. He felt horrible, sick with guilt over how childishly he was acting. She was just trying to help, just trying to ease the sting out and cheer him up. She was being a good friend, and Holland was being a rotten one. She’s almost to the end of the block before his jaw loosens enough for words to come out.

“I wasn’t up studying last night!” He calls after her.

She stops too quickly, nearly tripping over a raised brick.

He takes a few steps forward, continuing when he sees her head turn. He had gone from keeping secrets to pouring them out in public for anyone to hear. If anything, Holland felt sicker the more he said, but his words were bypassing his strict filter.

“I wasn’t up studying. I was up nursing a bruise from getting turned down at the bar and trying to fix the way I sound.”

“What bar?”

“Ruby Fields.”

“Damn. I liked that one.” Talya turned around completely, head tilted just slightly. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

“Why do you think, Tal?” Holland takes a deep breath. He stares up at the clouds, slowly turning orange and pink with the sky. “It makes me sound like a middle schooler in a badly-written tv movie. Its stupid and it shouldn’t bother me but it does and--.”

“And you didn’t want to bother me with it.”

“Exactly.”

“You need to stop doing that.”

Holland blinks. “Stop doing what?”

“Assuming I’m going to think something’s stupid or baby-ish,” Talya supplied easily. She didn’t move from her spot on the sidewalk, but Holland found himself walking forward. Closing the gap so only she could hear. She smiles at him. “I’m sorry I pushed, and don’t you apologize too. You only said any of that because you thought I had my feelings hurt.”

“But I  _ did _ hurt your feelings.”

“So what? Over not wanting to get dinner?” Talya raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “That’s stupid. I would have gotten over it in five minutes.”

Holland swallowed and tried a smile himself, but it probably looked forced and he let it drop. He was grateful Talya didn’t draw attention to it. “I do want to get dinner with you. Really, I do. I just really want to not talk about it, alright?”

“Fair enough, but can I ask one question before the embargo happens?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“What’s wrong with the way you  _ sound _ ?” Talya lowered her voice to nearly a whisper, leaning her whole body closer so there was no chance of being overheard. “You said you were up trying to fix that.”

Holland felt his face go pink and hot. “Oh, um, shit. I didn’t mean to…” He takes a deep breath, letting it out harshly, and looking down at her. “What the fuck, fine. Everytime I open my mouth, someone automatically deducts a hundred IQ points. They hear me and they think ‘stupid southerner’, and then they hear West Virginia and change it to ‘ignorant hick’. And I’m sick of it, sick of the look and the assumptions. The guy last night was making eyes at me for a whole hour before I did anything about it. He turns me down because I didn’t ‘sound like his type’, and then he has the gall to hit on me while I was smoking outside the bar because he didn’t recognize me with my coat on.”

“Wow,” Talya blinks in amazement, mouth fallen open in surprise. “Wow that is the shittiest thing I’ve heard all week! And I just sat through two and a half hours of  _ Charles Dickens _ , Holland! And that idiot from last night just topped it by a thousand. Holy shit, did they really do that?”

“Yep, and he seemed real surprised when I told him to fuck off.” Holland won’t deny the unloading helped, but he still hated it. Hated that it happened, that he had let it occupy so much real estate in his brain for so long. “But, shit Tal, it happens all the time.”

“No it doesn’t, you can pull whoever whenever.”

“Not that. The voice, thing.” Holland gestures to his mouth and throat. “It happens all the time. I’m pretty sure they gave me the full ride because I sound like a charity case, or at least a hick they could reform.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Tell me I’m wrong then. You are  _ the only person _ who hasn’t done a double-take when I talk in class.”

“That’s because I know you.”

“Well you never did when you didn’t. 

“What about that girl you tutor, the one from Georgia?”

“She’s my student, not a friend. I’m just, I’m just so sick of it.” Holland sighs, closing his eyes and rolling his tongue in his mouth. He flings his backpack up onto his shoulder and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. “Can we quit talking about it? I’m sick of getting upset over it.”

“Sure, but we will have to talk about it later. I don’t want that festering anymore.” She steps forward, forcing her arms underneath his to wrap him in a strong hug. 

Holland lets her, taking a few stubborn minutes to pull his own free and tug her closer. He pressed his face to her hair, the soft dark curls that smelled of her orange perfume and would sometimes end up in his mouth when she slept over. He let himself relax against her small frame, the warmth of her skin invading his. He mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” She buries her face in his neck. “What do you want to do? I didn’t even ask.”

“It’s alright,” Holland hums into her hair. “Wanna get fries and drown ‘em in vinegar?”

“At the place with the fried clam strips?”

“Yeah.”

“Sold. That sounds perfect.” She pulls away and takes his hand in hers. They fall into an easy silence as they walk, going several blocks before either of them felt like talking again. Talya prods him in the arm as they stand at a street light, waiting for the crosswalk to turn. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I just thought of something."

Holland grins, squeezing her hand. "What's that, Verreaux?"

"The guy from the bar last night, it's his loss turning you down," She starts, easy as can be. Then her face turns wickedly mischievous. "But I do like the idea of being the only one on campus to know how good of a lay you are."

Holland can't help laughing.


	3. The River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Parent death, sibling death, intrusive thoughts/memories, grief
> 
> Well, took me long enough, but we're finally back with chapter 3! Here we get more about Holland, his family, and his ties to his mother, plus a little Kell cameo at the end. Thank you all for the hits and comments. I cannot tell you how gratifying that is, and I sincerely hope you enjoy this next bit!

Cold air burned Holland’s lungs as he ran the deserted trail that wound next to the Charles river. The wind whipped at his hair, froze his arms and legs through his clothes. If he stopped his nose would start running. He’d spent three autumns at Harvard, but still thought the cold snuck up on him every year. He wasn’t ever going to get used to it, the suddenness of the change of seasons. He knew he wouldn’t. The latter half of the year eased its way into West Virginia. A gradual decline into the first frost, where one could watch the red, rust, and golden yellows bloom on the trees; the rolling morning mist on the rivers and streams; then finally the first snowfall, turning the world white around the last few brown leaves, the grey barren branches looking like smoke on the mountains.

In Massachusetts, summer abruptly ended sometime in September. Autumn chill and color was one punch to the senses, followed closely by the icy onset of winter in early November. Holland didn’t mind the cold so much after years of creative sleeping arrangements. He always felt caught off guard, despite all his know-how and preparedness. He had scrounged up enough money for a heavier winter coat during his sophomore year after freezing through his freshman winter in layers of flannel and Talya’s scarves. The only thing he never bought were gloves, something that really irked Tal when she noticed. He just didn’t feel temperature in his fingers the way he used to. 

Feeling a second wind coming on, Holland picks up speed as he rounds the bend of the trail. The trees were in their prime, glowing golden yellows, scarlet reds, and coppery oranges in the sunlight. Fallen leaves floated idly on the surface of the Charles, flowing freely under the next bridge or getting trapped in branches and rocks on the shoreline.

He feels himself slow as a memory comes on, clear and vivid. Him and his mother, standing on an iron bridge, dropping twigs and into the water on one side and then racing to see which was faster on the other. Alox and his father, somewhere in the background. 

A family trip up to Cass, near the Green Bank telescope. 

That’s what that was. A little trip, right before thanksgiving the year Holland turned six. It was the only family trip Holland remembered their small family taking. Just him, his older brother, his mother and dad. The bright leaves had mostly fallen off the trees, the sky a perpetually overcast iron grey, but the four of them had enjoyed it fully. His mother and he had played pooh-sticks in the mountain stream while Alox and their dad explored the historic coal-powered train nearby. In his memory, he and his mother had played the whole weekend, him in worn overalls and a hand-me-down winter coat -- dyed a bright red so mother could find him in a crowd -- and her in her long black coat and blue hat, the Russian shawl slung around her neck and shoulders. 

The same shawl Holland kept draped over his desk chair, pulled around his shoulders when the little apartment felt too drafty or he needed good luck on an exam day. 

His father had taught him and Alox a little Russian when they were young -- household items and animals, how to properly say their church names, enough to ask for and understand directions, to understand the songs he would sing as he turned their mother around the kitchen after a good day at work. Holland had done his best to fill in the rest of what he didn’t know in college classes, and now prided himself on the knowledge he and his father could have now talked for hours in the language together. The best he could do was long phone calls with Irina at the church and the hour or two he would spend at the little family plot whenever he went home.

His father had wanted to bury her in her shawl. It had been her most prized possession, the scarf she reached for on cold mornings and every Sunday for church. It was the first gift he had given her when they were still only dating in high school, the first words he taught her in his native language -- _pavlovo posad_. When no body, no trace, not even a shoe was found, the shawl had quickly gathered dust hanging limply from the top of her piano, still set in the living room corner.

They would have played the whole weekend, everyday forever if they could have.

_Throw it in, Holland. Go on, it's alright… Good throw! Now, go over to the other side. Let me hold you up. See? There it goes, right along with the water. Down out of the mountains, into the river where we live, then into the Mississippi somewhere, all the way out to the ocean…. Isn’t that a nice thought? The ocean?_

“Oh your left!”

Another runner passed him and Holland came back to himself. He had stopped running, stopped walking, was standing stock-still in the middle of the trail and staring out into the middle of the river. He wondered how long he had been standing there, blank-faced and vaguely confused. Probably the very image of a lost tourist. He rubbed a hand over his face and stared at the grey water.

_All the way out to the ocean… that’s a lovely thought, isn’t it? One day we’ll take you two to see the ocean…_

The words caught him off guard and he found himself choking, then coughing helplessly into his hands. His eyes water as his lungs spasm in his chest, working hard against cold air, years of cigarette smoke, the surprise, and Holland’s own attempts at stifling the noise. There was no one to hear, but he would rather die than attract any gazes, any pity. He crouches down on the pavement and stares at the far riverbank.

Holland had always been drawn to the water, drawn to rivers. The Kanawha and the Elk at home. The Ohio, Allegheny, Monogahela, and Susquehanna he had to drive across to get there. The Charles that split through Boston, and the Mystic near where Talya’s family lived. There was something peaceful about them, the way they cut through the world and remained largely left alone by humanity. People built bridges over them, tunnels underneath them, boats to cross them, but very few elected to mess with the current and force of the water itself. Big swaths of silver, cutting through mountains, plains, and cities, so large whole islands could sit in their middles, so long one could believe them to be endless. 

_All the way out to the ocean_ …

The police had searched the riverbanks from the beginning. Sent detectives, people, and dogs down to the water’s edge, looking for any scrap of his mother. They had found footprints they couldn’t confirm were hers, a muddy drag mark that could have been made by anything. Holland had relinquished his hold on one of her cardigan sweaters just long enough for the dogs to sniff it, in the hopes they would find her by that alone. The canines had caught the sent, pulling their handlers three miles up the banks of the Elk before losing it forever. 

They had said there wasn’t any more they could do.

She must have ended up in the river, must have been dropped there, thrown in, jumped.

Slipped wordlessly under the silver ribbon of the water’s surface and vanished. Carried away, dragged away by the current away from the city, her family, her sons.

_All the way out to the ocean…_

_One day, we’ll take you two boys to see the ocean. Did you know, sweetpea, I’ve never seen the ocean?_

Holland’s eyes open. He jumps back up to standing and starts walking, his hands shaking as he nears the bend in the trail. His heart hammers in his chest and he breathes hard, but not from the running or the coughing. He crosses to the far side of the path, as far as he can get away from the edge of the path and the water shining brightly below. 

Holland took a deep breath and started running again, full tilt. Just for a moment, just to get through the past, run away from the lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice in his ears. Gravel crunching under his sneakers, the swishing sound of his shirt’s fabric, the chill wind numbing his ears.

He was running away from memories.

The good ones that made him sadder than the sad memories ever had. The ones where the four of them had been happy, where his young childhood maintained that golden light of nostalgia. The ones that carried the sounds of their voices, the brush of grasshoppers against his bare legs and fireflies in the palms of his hands, his father’s rough hands holding his and Alox’s, the softness of his mother’s hair, the smell of Ivory soap that clung to both of their clothes early in the morning.

The bad ones where his father sat listless in a chair or lay unmoving on the bed, staring into the closet, into the kitchen, out the front door. The ones where a glass bottle and a small water glass was always near his hand and he didn’t seem to hear him or Alox anymore. The days in and days out Holland had spent sitting cross-legged on the front steps, staring at the rusty metal gate, waiting for his mother to come home in her black coat and blue hat, singing or humming something happy. The day Alox hit him across the face with angry tears dripping down his own face, shouting at him to grow up and that she wasn’t coming home because she was dead.

His mother kissing both their foreheads as she tucked them into bed each not.

His father’s rough hand on his cheek, the hoarse whispered _thank you Ilyusha_ that made up the last words Ivan Vosijk said.

Holland ran, hard and fast, right up to the farthest edge of his own stamina and then past it. He could feel their eyes on him, them watching from somewhere he couldn’t follow, somewhere he couldn’t see. He ran and ran and ran.

He outran the breath in his lungs, the pulse of his own heart, his body barely keeping up with sheer force of will.

He was racing ghosts.

He was running from the water he swore would claim him next.

He was falling.

Holland hit the ground at speed, managing to curl quickly onto his side and roll with the impact. The pavement scrapes against his cheek, his arms, his legs, knees, and ankles. He keeps his eyes tightly closed until he’s very sure he’s come to a stop on the ground, that no one is rushing over to help him, that no one is touching him. He takes in a shuddering breath and opens his eyes. He was an inch or two from being off the pavement completely, from having fallen into the drying leaves, twigs, and brush. After a minute, he rolls onto his back and stares up into the trees. He slowly catches his breath, sitting up with his back to the river. He leans forward, arms draped over his bent knees, and stares at the toes of his shoes with the tip of his tongue pressed to the backs of his top teeth.

He wiggles the fingers on both hands, then reaches to his face. He hisses as the scrape on his face burns, but doesn’t pull his fingertips away. Instead he sits there slack-jawed, pushing the pads into his broken skin.

_What happened, sweetpea? Oh my, oh that looks like it hurts. I’m so sorry, Holl, what a rotten way to end the day. Let’s go inside and I’ll get you all fixed up, okay?_

Holland blinks slowly, tears dropping out of his eyes. What he wouldn’t have given to have her kneel down in front of him again. To feel her carefully inspect his cuts with her patient nurse’s fingers, softly tell him to squeeze her wrist as she blots away the blood and smears on antiseptic cream. To take the little cup of warm water she handed him, hear her admonish him for turning his nose up at the smell of honey and ginseng.

_No, sir. No thank you. Don’t give me that face, Holland, I don’t like that face. Drink the whole thing, young man, then you can go play again… I don’t care if you don’t like the smell, it’s good for you. My mama used to give it to me all the time when I was little…_

He struggles to get to his feet, to pull his hand away from his face long enough to assess the rest of the damage. He takes deep, measured, watery breaths, blinking skyward in the hopes of forcing the tears back into his eyes. He pushes his hair out of his face, walking back up the path in the direction he had come. He had to go home. He couldn’t stay out here any longer. It was all too strong. It was too distracting. He couldn’t afford more cuts and bruises today -- he had students to tutor that afternoon and would rather have melted into the floor than explain why he was all gashed up.

He walks until he feels back in his body, then picks up to a jog. 

And still he hears her. Just over his shoulder, familiar and startling all the same. The song he had heard her sing to herself while gardening and cooking, played softly on the piano in the afternoons and evenings. Always on Sunday mornings and special occasions, whenever there was a christening or a funeral or a saint’s day. His mother had a song for every occasion, but she seemed to like just one the best.

_Oh mourners, lets go down, let’s go down, don’t you want to go down. Oh mourner, let’s go down, down in the river to pray…_

“Leave me alone,” Holland whispers to himself, picking up a little more speed. He’s more careful this time, watching his speed and balance. But he’s still trying to outrun it. “Please leave me alone.”

The words of the song went quiet, her voice with it. But he could still hear the melody, could pick up the strain in the rustling tree limbs, crunching leaves, the rolling of car tires on the bridges. It was a sad song, he always thought it was. They played it at the fake funeral they had held for her, the aunts and uncles and grandparents they had grown up knowing evaporating from their lives as soon as the service ended. Holland had sat slouched on the pew, staring at her photograph with his heart in his throat.

Alox wouldn’t hold his hand.

Holland hadn’t known her name was Margaret.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland kicked himself. He was almost ten minutes late for his first tutoring appointment. He was never late, not if he could help it. Having a meltdown in the shower and not knowing what he should wear after was not a good enough excuse. He still felt bad, even if the student was one of his more competent ones -- Kell Maresh, an anthropology major who was paranoid and particular about his essays. Holland wasn’t even a writing major, but he’d been a teaching assistant for one of Kell’s literature gen-eds and the young man hadn’t stopped seeking out his help.

Kell was perceptive, didn’t ask a lot of personal questions. But he did do a movie-quality double take when Holland sat down. “Your--. Christ, are you okay, Holland?”

Holland swallowed. “I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

“Clumsy how?” Kell tilted his head to the side, eyebrows creasing together.

“Tripped while running,” Holland waved his worry away, sliding easily into his imitation accent. The one that made him sound colder and bored, like he was from New York or Connecticut, somewhere else that wasn't home. “That’s it, quit worrying. Now, what’ve you got for me today?”

“Rhodewalt’s war essay. I did the first world war and horror movies prompt.”

“I remember. Did you fix everything I told you to?”

“Yes, I--.”

“Then why are you here, Kell?”

The redhead swallowed tightly, pushing a stapled-together copy towards Holland. “I changed the last page and ended up with four more pages. I just need to see if it sounds coherent.”

Holland nodded and picked up the paper. This was what he was good at, this is what he wanted his life’s work to be. Here, he could get rid of the memories for a little while. “Let’s take a look then. Give me five minutes to read through it.”


End file.
